Sleeping
by Dawn Asphodel
Summary: John finds the silence in 221B to be unusual - usually Sherlock is up and about, pacing or working on his various projects. Investigation leads to discovery, and John finds a sort of peace watching Sherlock sleep. As it develops into a habit, John feels increasingly guilty about it.


It was a peaceful quiet that settled upon the small apartment of 221B Baker Street. Not the restless, antsy quiet when a case was afoot, nor was it the stagnant silence of boredom. The silence was comfortable and cozy. In fact, this quiet felt like home.

Relaxing on his bed, John Watson licked his thumb and carefully flipped the page of the novel he was reading. It was a sort of trashy romance-mystery book that his new, and hopefully lasting, girlfriend had insisted on him giving it a go. John decided to read it to make her happy, as well as giving them another point interest to talk about when they were together. Not that they didn't talk a lot, it was just that she didn't particularly care to hear about his moonlighting as a consulting detective's partner. Too gruesome for her tastes or something like that, she cited, despite most of them not involving death or murder. Explicitly. Sighing, he scrunched down into the pillows, rolling his eyes as the hero detective of the book stumbled across a valuable piece of evidence.

Sherlock would have spotted that from the get go.

John's brow creased slightly, as his face betrayed his annoyance at the book. It seemed as if the mystery genre would never be as enjoyable as it had once been before working on cases with Sherlock. Thinking of the ever in motion man, John had not heard him pacing about the rooms below for quite some time. Or muttering. Or shouting. Or anything.

Curiosity took hold of him by the collar and shook him roughly, calling him to move from his comfy position on his bed and to investigate the silence that belayed the apartment.

John swung his legs off the bed and stood up, stretching high, until his shoulder blades gave a slight pop. Shaking them out, John slowly moved, almost reluctantly, towards the door of his bedroom and peeked outside the door. John knew that this could turn out to be one of Shelock's experiments. Sherlock had, in the past, set something up and laid in wait, silent, until John triggered it and Sherlock could record his reaction. John subconsciously clenched his fist in anger, unwillingly recalling the one that involved chalk, a banana, and a pistol.

John entered the living room cautiously, stilling his movements so that the rustling of his clothing would not impede his hearing. Looking about he didn't spy anything out of sorts, or anything to cause alarm. In fact, it was quite a normal scene. Everything was in place, the hum of the laptop on the desk filled the air, Sherlock was on the couch.

Too normal.

John approached Sherlock, about to ask what was going on, was he alright, and so on, when he noticed the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. Sherlock was asleep.

John paused, three feet away, and stared down at the sleeping man. John had, in all his time being roommates with Sherlock, which to be honest was not a long time, but was still a fair amount of time, had never witnessed the man sleep. Sherlock had always stayed up later than him, and been awake when John awoke.

To see him still was slightly unnerving, for a man who was always on the move, mentally if not physically.

The rise and fall of his chest was hypnotic. The almost fair expression on his face was stunning. This was a side John had yet to see of Sherlock, and it was absolutely fascinating.

John took another step closer, his arm reaching out to touch Sherlock, to confirm this was not a dream but reality. To run his hand through the soft looking curls that adorned his friend's head.

Suddenly Sherlock turned slightly, letting out a rather large huff of air.

The spell was broken, and John rapidly retracted his hand and stepped back, clutching the hand to his chest.

Shaking his head, he slipped away back upstairs. "John," he quietly said aloud once he had reached his room, "What has gotten into you?"

x

The second time John caught Sherlock sleeping was by accident. Much like the first time, John had walked into the living room only to see the sleeping form of his roommate lying upon the couch, curled inwards towards the cushions.

John sat, really rested against, on the armchair of the chair opposite and stared contemplatively at the man's figure. His eyes flowed from the top of Sherlock's head, down to the crook of his neck, and back up to his shoulder. His eyes traveled down the rest of his body, studying it closely for the first time. Sherlock was lean, almost too much so, but there was strength and power in that body. He was fit and fine, just like the fiddle he so often toyed with, playing into the odd hours of the night sometimes. John remembered the first few times Sherlock played into the night. He groaned and cursed his living arrangements under his breath, pulling his pillow over his ears.

John stood up suddenly, realizing he had been sitting there far too long. Grabbing his jacket, he cast one last look at Sherlock and left quickly.

With the sound of footsteps fading and the eventual closure of the door the apartment complex, silence fell.

For a moment.

Until the small squeak of leather filled the air, and Sherlock turned around, his face full of curiosity.

x

John reluctantly admitted to himself that he enjoys watching Sherlock sleep. Most times finds Sherlock in various positions around the house, some odder than others. John once found Sherlock dead asleep on the kitchen table, his head resting beside the microscope, his hands at either side of him, a bit of drool by his mouth.

It had become a habit of his. Once silence descended, the one that didn't have the fretful sounds of Sherlock, John crept out of his room. Just to see is Sherlock was about. Pushing away the guilt of his secret. The one place John never breeched was Sherlock's room. That was too much, too private.

John rubbed a hand through his short hair, sitting in his chair while Sherlock slept away on the couch. Looking at the clock, the ticking hands let him know that it was a quarter to three in the morning. This was getting to be too much, but John didn't want to stop observing Sherlock. It was brilliant, just to see the man so still, so quiet. Peaceful.

John stood up and walked over to Sherlock.

He reached out a hand, but paused. John didn't know exactly what he was standing there for. To anyone else it was ridiculous, but, to him, he took solace in it. The peace that now surrounded him was beautiful in a way, a stillness he never really reconciled with Sherlock.

He turned away, feeling silly. Sighing, he started to walk away when a hand darted out and caught his arm before he could move an inch.

John's breath hitched and felt a bit of the blood in his face drain as he turned his head to look back at the couch. Sherlock's eyes pierced through the gloom of the room, and, as it felt, right into John's mind and most inner thoughts.

"How long?" John whispered, knowing from Sherlock's expression that this was certainly not the first time he had been aware of John's visitations.

"Weeks." Sherlock's reply was short, analytical, and, if John was right, curious maybe? It wasn't angry or malicious. It wasn't harsh. It was Sherlock.

"Why?" The 'did you let me' was implied.

Sherlock broke their eye contact, looking almost uncomfortable, and John felt fear rising in his chest.

"Because, it shows you care."

Sherlock let his hand drop from John's arm, slowly bringing it to his body. John turned his head back, eyes staring at the wall. John nodded, marching back to his room.

x

John walked slowly down the stairs in trepidation the next morning. Guilt turned his stomach inside and out as he envisioned what awaited him in their living room. He steeled his expression, made it neutral.

The scene he walked into was… normal. No uncomfortable silence. Sherlock was perched on his chair, laptop precariously balanced on his knees. The tip-tap of keys being pressed quickly filled the air.

John could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen.

"Sherlock," John began.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the solider, eyebrow raised quizzically.

"About last night, and before," John started to recite his well practiced apology. It would end with him offering to move out because really, who would want to live with a flatmate like him?

"What John? You were hardly doing anything illegal."

"But Sherlock, it's strange. I know it's strange, or I feel like it is. It's an invasion of your privacy!" John explained, the worm of guilt flip-flopping around his stomach.

"It's fine John." Sherlock stated calmly, turning back to the bright screen of the laptop.

"But it isn't!" John said throwing his arms up and walking into Sherlock's line of sight.

"John. It is fine," Sherlock said, each word punctuated by a small pause, clearly emphasising. Noting the absolute look of distraught upon John's face – he could understand John's mental state and expressions better than most of the other people he knew – Sherlock decided to expand his explanation. "It's just another type of observation." Sherlock paused, his expression becoming softer. "It shows that you care and you are human. Nothing to feel guilty about."

John rubbed his face, dragging the hand across it as if to rub away the reality before him. Quickly he turned to the kitchen, making his hopefully not so obvious escape.

"It gives me a sense of comfort, to know that you care."

John turned his head back, to see Sherlock give him a half-grin. John turned back, inspecting the floor. He felt the coiling worm of guilt disappear, slowly but surely.

It took awhile before John felt comfortable again in the silence, but he soon settled back in. Back into routine. Back into feeling himself.

And, every now and then, he would peek in on Sherlock, just to check up on him.

* * *

For my Secret Santa. I'm sorry this was so late, but I do hope you enjoy it. I apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors I may have missed in my editing process.


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